“I had suspicions but no proof of my 'usband's infidelity,” dictated Mr. Brunger, pacing the floor, “until I enlisted your services. I must say--” At that moment the telephone bell rang. Mr. Brunger ceased dictation; took up the receiver. “Are you David Brunger, the private detective?” a voice asked. “We are,” replied Mr. Brunger in the thin treble he used on first answering a call. “Who are you, please?” “I am Mr. Christopher Marrapit of Herons' Holt, Paltley Hill, Surrey. I--” “One moment,” piped Mr. Brunger. “Is it confidential business?” “It is most urgent business. I--” “One moment, please. In that case the private secretary must take your message.” Mr. Brunger laid down the receiver; took a turn across the room; approached the telephone; in a very deep bass asked, “Are you there?” The frantic narrative that was poured into his ears he punctuated with heavy, guttural “Certainly's,” “Yes's,” “We comprehend's,” “We follow you's.” Then: “Mr. David Brunger himself? I'm afraid that is impossible, sir. Mr. Brunger has his hands very full just now. He is closeted with Scotland Yard. At this moment, sir, the Yard is consulting him ...'m...'m. Well, I'll see, sir, I'll see. I doubt it. I very much doubt it. But hold the line a minute, sir.” In his capacity of Mr. David Brunger's private secretary, Mr. David Brunger drank from the carafe of water on the mantelpiece to clear his tortured throat. In his capacity of the great detective and confidential inquiry agent himself, he then stepped to the telephone and, after exhibiting a power of invention relative to startling crimes in hand that won even the admiration of Mr. Issy Jago, announced that he would be with Mr. Marrapit at three o'clock. “It may be a big job, Issy,” he remarked, relighting the stump of cigarette, “or it may be a little job. But what I say and what I do is, _impress your client. Impress your client,_ Issy. Let that be your maxim through life. And if I catch you again takin' a draw at my cigarette when my back's turned, as I see you just now, I'll damn well turn you inside out and chuck you through that door. So you watch it. You've made this smoke taste 'orrid-'orrid. No sauce, now; no sauce.” IV. By two o'clock the results of Mr. Marrapit's colossal scheme began to pour in. The bowls of milk, gleaming along the wall of Herons' Holt, drew every stray cat within a radius of two miles. Beneath, each armed with a clothes-prop, toiled Mr. Fletcher and Frederick under the immediate generalship of Mr. Marrapit. Throughout the morning cats bounded, flickered and disappeared upon the wall. Fat cats, thin cats; tom cats, tabby cats; white cats, black cats, yellow cats, and grey cats; young cats and old cats. As each appeared, Mr. Marrapit, first expectant then moaning, would wave his assistants to the assault. Up would go the clothes-prop of Mr. Fletcher or Frederick; down would go the stranger cat. It was exhausting work.